Phillies There is one night light in this town: it is saffron- emerald, and it is called Phillies, easily found at the corner of Breughel and Vine. With that address, you might expect a whole population, a gaggle of antics and age, radiant life being lived, a really grand time. Instead, though, you’ll find folks who are sufficient unto themselves: train missed, they seek a cuppa, two lumps stirred; sleep failing them, a nickel plays a platter; love an afterthought, it’s rhubarb pie a la mode. Don’t mind the emptied streets, the enclosing dark, they seem to say. Just slip into a red dress, tilt the brim of your fedora, down or up, and say good eve to your fellow behind the counter— then prime your marrow for the quiet clap of dawn. First published in The Ekphrastic Review, 2019
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Nice!
Love this poem